


Dragonsire

by StoryReigns96



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Drama & Romance, F/M, Female Viserys Targaryen, Genderbending, Intrigue, Male Daenerys Targaryen, Multi, Politics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2019-07-13
Packaged: 2020-06-25 21:10:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19753882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StoryReigns96/pseuds/StoryReigns96
Summary: Westeros had always been a man's world. The Mother of Dragons had shattered that illusion once, but in a twist of fate, the Heir of House Targaryen is its foundation. Now, Daeron Stormborn hides in exile under the care of the Mad King's daughter Visenya, with their loyal Kingsguard, Lord Commander Arthur Dayne. Raised by the beautiful Septa Ashara, and taught by the learned Maester Marwyn, It falls to him to spawn the Dragons of Old, and usher in a New Valyria. MaleDany! FemViserys!





	1. The King Who Would Be A Beggar

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: 'A Song of Ice and Fire' belongs to G.R.R Martin, and Game of Thrones, the television series belongs to HBO. I am not making any profit off of this work of fan fiction, which requires a knowledge of the source material to be enjoyed. Seriously, Martin doesn't like fan fiction because assholes take money for it. Which, besides from being a lame thing to do, is against site rules.
> 
> These first few chapters will largely follow Dany's first chapter/episode, this won't continue, it's to compare and contrast Dany to Daeron.
> 
> Chapters will vary in length considerably as the plot demands. Generally, shorter chapters will mean faster updates and vice versa.

**Daeron III**

His sister held the helm up for his inspection. "This is craftsmanship. Go on, take it. See for yourself."

Daeron took it. The helmet was heavy in his hands and cold on his fingertips. The steel was thick and polished well enough that black though it was, it still managed to shine. In in the shape of a dragon, it spread its wings of steel over the wearer's head, its long neck rested along the nasal. The eye slits were so thin that one had to look for them where they were expected to be. Streamers of bright oranges, reds, and pinks sprouted from the top, to appear as fire while in motion. He could not recall ever having such an ornate helm, and its presence now did little to make him want to change that.

Visenya pulled him forward by the collar of his shirt, smiling widely. His sister was in an unusually happy mood this evening. She dragged him into a room, and plopped him in front of a suit of armor, which he surmised was the companion of the helmet his sister had passed to him earlier.

Daeron recognized it as soon as he laid his eyes on the rack holding it upright. He had seen it before in his dreams, which in turn drew from the many stories he'd been told as a child. 'Fool.' he chastised himself, he should have known as much from the helm. Before them was the armor of Rhaegar Targaryen, their older brother… their late brother. At least appeared to be Rhaegar's armor, it looked very much like it had been described to him. The Targaryen three-headed dragon sigil wrought with rubies on plate as dark as midnight, resting on rings of gilded steel. It was just like the stories. Yet Daeron knew it could not be Rhaegar's armor, for Rhaegar had lost his armor on the very day he had lost his life on the Trident, as the Usurper had broken his brother's body and thrown him into the river along with all his rubies.

Dainty hands clasped his shoulders from behind, and gripped far tighter than they had a right to, "It was forged by the masters of Qohor." Visenya whispered into his ear, "Tis' exactly how I remember it."

When the thought crossed his mind of how that she'd only been a young girl when she last saw it, and that memories of such things faded over the years, he held his tongue. It would not do to question his sister.

"Is it mine, truly?" Daeron asked hesitantly, she liked to dress in mail as her namesake, despite not being a warrior herself, but Daeron was, and could tell at a glance that it would not fit her lithe frame. Yet Daeron worried if she meant to gift it to another, and worried greater still she meant to gift it to him. He had heard the tale a hundred times from Visenya, and a hundred times again from others of how Rhaegar had fallen, his brother's blood chasing after the rubies into a watery grave had haunted his nightmares. He disliked the idea of the same fate befalling him to haunt his waking hours.

"A gift from Illyrio." Visenya answered, and he shivered beneath her touch.

Daeron was weary of the enormous magister, who smelt of cheese and wine badly hidden by even worse smelling perfume.

"Why would he give away such a thing?" the man had showered them with gifts for all the many months they had made their home within his manse, while the man asked for nothing in return. The magister was a wealthy trader for certain, this he knew well enough. But Daeron knew that such men of ignoble birth did not acquire riches through generosity. "What does he want with us?"

"The man is no fool," Visenya said. "He knows that we will not forget our friends when we reclaim what is rightfully ours."

Her answer did not soothe him, it was not his understanding that friends render aid to another, solely in the hope that they one day might be rewarded. Of course, he did not share his opinion out loud. Partly out of fear of smack, and partly out of fear that he knew what the magister wanted, and that he might want what a great of men had wanted from Visenya.

She was a remarkable sight, shapely and supple, with hair spun of silver-gold, and eyes of pale lilac that had been the undoing of many a man, but they were cold and harsh. 'She might be the most beautiful in all the world, if ever she smiled.' As it was, this view seemed to be his alone. The rest of the world was convinced that she needn't smile to be desired by all.

Visenya began to disrobe him, and he struggled to maintain his composure. "You'll wear the armor tonight." she commanded and began to talk small as she helped him.

"Khal Drogo has a thousand horses..." she pulled his doublet over his head, and he tried to hide the scowl on his face that had come forth at the mention of the Dothraki.

"And tonight he hopes to find a mount of a different sort." he could hear the smirk in her tone before he nearly collapsed in a heap when she tore his britches clear off.

She threw him a shirt of crimson silk and began to tie the laces on his shoes. "For one night, you'll have to at least appear the king." she fussed. Daeron wilted under her devices, and critiquing glare. Whatever joy she had taken in the sight from the replica of Rhaegar's armor had faded at her own reminder that he was the 'king' and she was not.

"Stop slouching." she scolded harshly, "Stand up like a man." no sooner had she questioned his manhood, was he dismayed to find that she had taken hold of it in a vice grip.

"You will not ruin this for me tonight. If you do, it will go badly for you. You don't wish to wake the dragon now, do you?" Her fingers twisted, and however it was possible, she pinched even harder than before. "Do you?"

"No." Daeron gasped.

"Good." His sister smiled and released him. He fell to his knees and struggled to regain his breath. She ran her fingers through his hair, with what might almost be called affection. "The time has come for us to seize our destiny, dear brother, and I mean to." Visenya kissed his forehead, and left without another word, strutting away with a purpose.

Daeron tried to calm himself, and stop his heart from battering at his ribs. Only Visenya could reduce him to such a state, as she had always could in the past. It had been this way for as long as he could remember. Visenya did not seem to be certain whether to treat him as her younger brother, her charge, her king or their mother's killer...

"Well, she certainly seized something." a dark chuckle rang out in the small room, and with it, he flushed anew. He did not need to turn his head to know that it came from Oswell Whent, a knight of his own Kingsguard, who was in Daeron's mind, overly fond of gallows humor, and not mindful enough about offending his liege.

Twin suits of enameled scales, bearing splendid white cloaks born by two of the finest knights in the world, flanked him on both sides. "She mightn't be able to fly or breathe fire, but she can bite yer head off easily enough." chortled the knight with the bat wings protruding from his helmet.

The other man cleared his throat loudly and deliberately, Daeron's Lord Commander Arthur Dayne glared at his brother-in-arms and gestured stiffly to their king.

Ser Oswell froze on his right and bowed his head. "Begging your pardon, Your Grace." The knight of House Whent was a good man, and as true as any he'd ever known, but often cruder than a knight of the Kingsguard ought to be. He would crack smart remarks at many inopportune moments, about subjects best avoided. He typically refrained from insulting his charges, but it was no great secret that Ser Oswell disliked the Princess. Men from the Riverlands were unused to sisters lording over their brothers. Which to Daeron had always seemed the natural order.

Daeron grunted, and rose to his feet, silently refusing Ser Arthur's attempt to help him stand. He bid them help him in putting the armor on, Daeron had no page or squire to assist him, and he would not impose on Illyrio's 'servants', yet no man could dress himself in plate single-handedly, and even if such a thing were possible, it was not the sort of task that should be done haphazardly.

His Kingsguard did as they were commanded. They brought forward his chausses, greaves, and sabatons, wisely starting from the bottom and working their way up. The arming doublet came next, made up of padding and the steel rings covered in golden leaf, which would protect whatever gap the plates would leave around his torso. And so on it went, with his gauntlets, vambraces, pauldrons, and then his standard. With every new piece, Daeron felt himself being weighed down, not so much by the steel, which seemed remarkably light, but by the thought of resembling his brother's corpse more and more. He stared at the ruby dragon in front of him with increasing distrust.

When the Kingsguard were fastening cuirass around his chest, Ser Oswell snorted at the Targaryen sigil himself, "She might as well have painted a giant 'X'." and Daeron frowned at the thought. Could Visenya have meant him harm by giving him the armor? Rhaegar's death was a well-known thing, and if he'd been wearing thicker plate instead of jewel-encrusted as he had done, mayhaps things would be different. Mayhaps Visenya thought the same and sought a repeat of history.

Yes, She venerated their older brother for his triumphs, but never missed an opportunity to curse what she saw as his faults. Daeron was neither permitted to sing, or play the harp, despite Ashara's pleas. Should he even show signs of melancholy, he would be punished. So, why would she give him such armor if not out respect for his memory?

"Oswell." Ser Arthur rebuked sternly and hit his mark. Ser Oswell paled and again apologized.

"It's alright." Daeron placated. As much as Ser Oswell's remarks left him uneasy, he did not think it just to scold a man for echoing his own thoughts aloud. So long as such things were said in private. It would not do for others to hear, and Daeron reeled at the thought of the words reaching Visenya's ears.

Ser Arthur did not question him, but he did not stop glaring at his brother. "The Princess desires above all else to keep you safe, Your Grace." the legendary knight explained, but Daeron was unconvinced. Seeing as much Arthur continued, "The smiths of Qohor are renowned throughout the world, Your Grace. Your armor is of the finest quality, it is not merely for pomp, it will keep you safe.

The prowess of the Qohorik smiths was well known indeed. If Visenya meant him harm, there were better ways of going about than giving him a means of defending himself.

"As shall we." declared his Lord Commander, and Daeron nodded. Rhaegar did not have Ser Arthur or Ser Oswell with him on the Trident, only the traitor Selmy. Daeron did not believe that his Kingsguard would betray him, even at Visenya's behest, but still, he could not shake the thought they had not been with Rhaegar when his time had come.

Arthur was Dornish. Where men were quite used to sisters lording over their brothers, as Arthur was used to his sister Ashara. Daeron knew full well that by Dornish law, older daughters inherited before younger sons. By Dornish law, Visenya would be the Queen, and he would be the Prince. The irony was that Daeron would not have minded this arrangement in the slightest. He had been raised by women, there was never a shred of doubt in his mind that they could rule every bit as well as men, while there had indeed been a great deal of doubt that he could rule as well as his sister. Visenya seemed to share this doubt, as she oft reminded him.

Mayhaps if the Iron Throne, by Dornish law, had passed to Visenya instead of Aerys' unborn child, then the loyal Kingdoms would not have surrendered and abandoned the Targaryen children to their fate.

But Dorne was but one of Seven Kingdoms, and in the other six, along with the Riverlands and Crownlands, women only inherited as a last resort. Having already been forced into exile, even Visenya had settled into fighting one battle at a time. Daeron was convinced that a similar reason involving the Faith's rules against sister-wives was what kept them from being married, something he was infinitely grateful for.

Yet even the Dornish Daynes supported his claim over Visenya's. Daeron was unsure as to the why, perhaps it was because of Visenya's dislike for Ashara, or Arthur's many years north of the Red Mountains, or his resemblance to his older brother. Rhaegar's shadow loomed large in his life, their similar look made it so that Daeron could never escape it.

Soon enough, they had finished outfitting him and passed him his helmet, which he took with trepidation, and no desire to wear it until he had to. He excused his sworn protectors and bade them give him some time to himself.

It would be hours before Visenya would expect him, and he intended to take the time to prepare himself for day to come.

* * *

It was a scorching day in Pentos, yet Daeron found it comfortable enough, under the blaring sun that shone down on the cobbled streets and brick towers, even wearing black armor over a thick doublet. Visenya said it was their Valyrian blood. The people who had emerged from beneath the Fourteen Flames in the Lands of the Long Summer, quite liked the heat, and this fondness followed their descendants.

Ashara had told him that the blood of the Rhoynar that had flowed in Targaryens since the second Daeron had wed Mariah Martell, also played its part. Dornishmen she said, adored the sun, and had told him that he was every bit as Rhoynish as he was Valyrian.

Daeron wasn't as certain in the cause as they were but was sure of the result. He rather enjoyed warm weather.

Yet neither the blazing sun or his copy of _Battle and Sieges of the Century of Blood_ by Maester Joseth could hold his attention for any length of time.

So he contented himself with watching the Pentoshi as they went about their daily lives, and longed to be like them.

Daeron was not Pentoshi. He was the Blood of Old Valyria, born beneath the mountain of fire that was Dragonstone bursting from the Narrow Sea under a stormy sky. Born to a dead father, and a dying mother. Heir to an entire continent, though just as soon dispossessed and forced to flee. Raised by a handful of loyal retainers, and left to spend the rest of his life trying to get back something he'd never had to begin with.

He knew from the whispers of those around him that people mocked him as the 'Beggar King'. This did not bother him overmuch, not even as much as it bothered Visenya, because Daeron knew better than anyone the truth in it. He was a king without a kingdom, who traveled the Free Cities with an outstretched hand, and pleaded with the wealthy and powerful for aid.

Yet he still disliked being called a beggar all the same, if not from insult, but a genuine desire to actually be one. A man would have to be daft to be a king, when beggars lived so well.

Daeron was the third of his name, from a dynasty that had ruled more than a half a dozen realms for hundreds of years, and the rightful ruler of the Sunset Kingdoms as they were called in Essos, but Daeron could not lay a foot on its shores for fear of death.

He'd been knighted at twelve as Daemon Blackfyre had been, and yet there were no adventures for him, nor any great deeds to be done. Instead, he hid away, running away from knives in the night.

He could speak the tongues of Old Valyria and Westeros, the nine bastard dialects of each Free City, the sweet words of Summer, the many curses and gestures of trade talk, even some smattering of mongrel Ghiscari. Yet he had precious few people to talk to, and those that he had, spoke as his servants or his sovereign.

On Maester Marwyn's knee, he had learned the histories, laws, and poetry of the Seven Kingdoms. Yet had never seen them a single one of them, he could no better describe his birthright than a piece of parchment could. His ancestor King Jaehaerys had written most of Westeros' laws, yet Daeron did not follow them. He knew hundreds of fables and lyrics from his homeland yet had never met one of his countrymen.

Ashara had taught him the ways and tenants of the Faith, yet Daeron had never felt the light of the Seven. He had lived among the small-folk, learned to fish and swim, mend nets and how to wash his own clothes, yet he would never be one of them. He was royalty, he would never be permitted to earn his own living, to sleep until the sunlight woke him, or set sail and see how far the sea could take him.

He had felt hunger, and been hunted by the cloak-and-dagger assassins sent by the Usurper and his dogs. Yet he had never learned to hunt in turn, or been allowed to face the would-be dragon slayers.

He was an actor dressed in fine clothes to fool the world. If he were a beggar, he would be dressed in rags but they would be his rags. He was a warrior to ward off the blade hovering above. If he were a beggar, he would have no sword, but he would be safe. He was a scholar to pretend he knew something of the world. If he were a beggar, he would be as ignorant as the next, but he would not be afraid of what he did not know. He was a bachelor so that great lords might one day sell their daughters for a premium in exchange for a promise. If he were a beggar, he could marry who he liked, who he loved.

He was a king because fate had destined him to be a slave to duty. If he were a beggar, he would be free. But he was a king, born to wear a crown, the king of collars.

Would that they called him the 'Slave King', they would be right, and he might not feel so alone.

* * *

The sun had begun to set when Visenya came to fetch him. He was waiting for her on a balcony, watching as the shade of evening descended over the city.

She inspected him thoroughly, and for the first time, he was pleased to be encased in the black armor. She wrenched the helmet from his hands, and threw it atop his head, causing some discomfort as he'd yet to put on a cap. After some more intense scrutiny, she rendered her verdict. "Yes. Good. This will do nicely."

'Servants' brought a pane of copper for him to see his reflection, and Daeron was surprised by the sight, and lack thereof as he could scarce see anything through the thin eye holes, but he managed to make out enough. Before him was what he'd always imagined Rhaegar to appear as. Regal, imposing, distinguished. Every bit the prince, and not the least bit afraid. 'I have become a mirage.'

Visenya herself was dressed as she imagined a Targaryen princess ought to be. A dress of immaculate silk was draped over her shoulders, she stood on bejeweled sandals, bracelets of gold clung to her wrists, a dragonbone brooch held her silver hair high and tight. Along her brow was her prized possession, a thin band of gold adorned with seven different precious gemstones. It had once belonged to Alysanne the Good Queen, and more importantly to her, their mother. Visenya cherished Queen Rhaella's crown more than anything in the world… and had done whatever it took to keep it.

He wore no crown, in part because the crowns of his ancestors had been lost during the Sack of King's Landing. Visenya would have preferred it if he did wear a wear one, but she had been swayed by the prospect of a coronation in the Sept of Baelor. Daeron figured that in the event of such a thing occurring, by then they would have recovered their lost treasures. Daeron thought he might like King Jaehaerys' crown the best, the companion to Alysanne's, so that he too would have something to remind him of his mother.

Daeron noticed the choker around her neck and wondered if his sister was preparing to be sold. 'Khal Drogo is so rich even his slaves wear golden collars.' Visenya's words rang out in his head.

"You look beautiful, sister." he complimented, it was the truth, though Daeron had only said so because he knew it was expected of him. Visenya snorted but was otherwise satisfied.

"Yes, she is a vision, Your Grace." Illyrio spoke, stepping into the room easier than Daeron would have expected from a narrow doorway. He shook the floor beneath them as he approached, and Daeron cringed behind his visor at the sight of his crooked yellow teeth smiling up at him. "The Lord of Light has surely blessed the two on this day."

Personally, Daeron was no more convinced by the Red God than he was the Seven, but men did not take dismissals of their gods easily, even men as large as Illyrio.

"Drogo will be enraptured by your beauty, princess." the magister told his sister.

Visenya preened under the praise, then frowned, and stared at the rotund man. "Are you certain the Khal has a taste for Valyrian the look?" she asked hesitantly, it was a rare thing to see her nervous, which scared him even more.

"Why absolutely, princess, there can be no doubt," Illyrio soothed in a sweet tone, that Daeron considered to be as flowery as the sickly perfume he reeked of, "perfect features set in a highborn daughter of the old king, the enchanting sister of the new. You cannot fail to entrance our Khal."

"I suppose," she doubted, "in any case, it is unlike these savages to be picky."

If it was the words she chose or the way she said them, Daeron realized that she had not been worried about whether or not Drogo would find her appealing, but if he would expect to find a maiden in her.

Seeming to have the same thought as he, Illyrio spoke "The Dothraki are a peculiar people. They do not understand sin as we do, and therefore do not consider the carnal nature of nuptials to be sacred. Couples mate before they're wed, men make no vows of being faithful, and the women who have likewise spent their lives in the saddle, seldom arrive in their marriage beds with their maidenheads intact."

Relief was palpable on his sister's face, as Daeron's scrunched in fury at the mention of Dothraki 'customs'. He had been reading all about them as of late and had noticed what Illyrio had neglected to mention that the men cared not for the choices of their 'brides', nor did they have any qualms in setting them aside once age had set in.

Once again, Daeron chose not to share with his sister, as he knew it would not sway her, and would only serve to wake the dragon.

Visenya was contented by Illyrio's assurances, and with renewed vigor carried on. They collected the knights of the Kingsguard and departed for Drogo's manse.

* * *

They followed servants carrying torches to light their way, in a great palanquin draped with purple velvet, held aloft by a dozen strongmen that Daeron pitied for having to carry such a load. Behind them, Ser Arthur & Ser Oswell trailed on horseback. Behind the curtains, things were exceedingly cramped. It was impossible for him to get comfortable, as he awkwardly tried to sit covered full plate, with the stench of Illyrio invading his nose, and Visenya sprawled out over him, toying with the hilt of the sword on Daeron's hip.

He knew well that Visenya resented never having been trained in arms as her namesake had, but such was the way of things. Not even Targaryen women were taught how to wield a blade, not since the time of the Prince Daemon and the Dance, which was only due to the fact that not even the king dared to instruct the Rogue Prince how to raise his children.

Aerys II was not the Rogue Prince, he believed women belonged on the birthing bed, not the battlefield. Daeron did not see the sense of this, not all women were mothers, and women were often among the casualties of war. Princess Elia had not been allowed to use a sword, yet the Usurper's largest dog had murdered her all the same.

Daeron would have surely let Visenya learn how to use a sword, and if she so wanted, he would be glad to teach her. Visenya however, would not contradict the will of their father, and it was folly to think she would ever ask for his help in anything.

It was not thoughts of sword-fighting that held sway over his sister's mind, but dreams of home. "We won't need his whole khalasar," Visenya murmured, "Ten thousand, that will be enough, with ten thousand Dothraki screamers we'll sweep the Seven Kingdoms. The realm will rise for its rightful rulers. The Tyrells, Redwynes, Darrys, Greyjoys, they have no more love for the Usurper than we do. The Dornish burn to avenge their princess and her children."

She spoke with such surety that Daeron could almost believe her, while at the same time he was skeptical. Ser Oswell had spoken disdainfully of the Dothraki, he claimed that one stout charge of lances thrust by armored knights would break any host of screamers, and for once, Ser Arthur had not disagreed.

Daeron also doubted the great houses of Westeros would rise against the Usurper so easily.

The lords of Highgarden and the Arbor, Mace & Paxter had laid siege to Storm's End for the better part of a year to no effect. They sat in front of an impenetrable fortress as the Usurper was allowed to rally. They had feasted with tens of thousands of men that could have turned the tide of the war, as Rhaegar perished on the Trident. And from what he'd read of the Reach, the Tyrells and Redwynes seemed more interested in tending their roses and grapes rather than harking to kings.

House Darry had been loyal once, and true. Ser Jonothor had been a knight of his father's Kingsguard and had fought and died with his older brother. Ser Willem, who had once been the Red Keep's master-at-arms, was the man who had spirited him from Dragonstone the fateful night the Usurper had attacked and probably saved his family from total destruction. But the war had cost their family dearly, Lord Raymun had lost three brothers on the Trident, and with them, half their land, most of their wealth, and nearly all of their bannermen. Would Lord Darry risk everything, even his children, to rebel against his liege lord, in the name of people he'd never met? And even if House Darry would rise for them, they could not raise them by much.

Of the Greyjoys at least, he was certain of their loyalties to House Targaryen. Nonexistent. Many records had been written of the Lord Reavers of Pyke, and none of them had been heartening. They had betrayed his family on numerous occasions: Lord Dalton had taken advantage of the chaos brought b the Dance and raided as was his wont, Lord Dagon once sacked Little Dosk during the reign of the first Aerys, Lord Quellon had sided with the Usurper even if did make little difference in the end. Lord Balon's rebellion, which gave Visenya hope, was nothing more than a greedy attempt to declare himself a king in his own right, as he pillaged the coasts of the Sunset Sea.

The Dornish though, might could revolt. House Martell had never been friendly with the Baratheons. Dorne had only joined the Seven Kingdoms through marriage, and the ties that bound to them to the Iron Throne had been severed when the Usurper's father-in-law had his monster rape and brutalize their prodigal daughter. If such a thing were done to Visenya, he would not rest until he bathed in their blood. Yet they had not heard a word from Sunspear or any in Dorne in all the long years in exile, despite the presence of the Arthur & Ashara in their company.

No, Daeron was not convinced as his sister was. He was full of doubt, and he worried constantly as to how they were ever going to return home.

"We shall make them all pay, little brother." Visenya whispered into his ear as she wrapped her hand around the hilt of his blade, and pulled it forth enough to see the glint of steel. "The Usurper will die as he slew Rhaegar. And Lannister too, the Kingslayer, for what he did to father."

Whatever he lacked in desire to rule or confidence in rallying the realm to his side, was made up for by his resolve. For vengeance.

Yes, years of running had made him bitter. Years of hiding from the watchful eyes of that treacherous Spider had driven him mad. The countless attempts on their lives had left him simmering with hatred. Beggars could be just as full of hate as kings.

He would indeed see to it that the Usurper would pay for killing his brother, and chasing him out of his home. The Kingslayer would reap what he'd sewn when he made Daeron an orphan, and he'd send the Lannister's head to repay his debt to Lord Tywin for Elia and his niece & nephew. He would topple their Mountain, even it cost him his life. He would not allow the bringers of every woe in his life to build their lives on the ashes of his family.

Shaking, his hand wrapped around hers. Visenya might not be versed in the art of warfare, but Daeron was… and unlike his brother, he had taken to it gladly. He had learned from the Sword of the Morning, the finest knight of his age, since he'd been old enough to stand.

Daeron's knighthood at twelve had been earned.

Visenya was trying to calm him down as he rattled about his armor, doing her best to soothe his own, not nonexistent temper.

"Now, now, little brother, that's enough of that. It won't be much longer now."

He relaxed. The curtains opened.

Daeron stood tall, and Visenya took his arm as they made their way forward.


	2. For Want of a Hero

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Changed the title of the story, the original was a work in progress, I thought it sounded too gimmicky for my taste. I think the new title is apter and contrasts nicely with Dany's title as the Mother of Dragons. The literal meaning of sire means the male parent of an animal or a lord. I think that's pretty self-explanatory. Hope you like it.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who reviewed, I appreciate it. Enjoyed the discussions that came with them greatly.
> 
> The question of bringing back Rhaenys remains, and I'm still wondering.

**Daeron**

Brother & sister were halted at the gate, called to a stop by the house guards blocking their entry inside. The man who stopped them had the copper skin that was common amongst the Dothraki, yet unlike his kin, he was hairless and wore a bronze spiked cap that marked the Unsullied. He inspected them with cold eyes.

"Stand aside, slave." Visenya spat in the Pentoshi dialect. Daeron thought it would do little good, the guard was protecting a Dothraki's manse, and likely knew not a word of Valyrian. Even if by chance he did, the sentry would scarce abandon his post because he was told to do so by a stranger.

He was right. The Unsullied stood still as statues and continued to stare through them. Daeron felt his sister's grip tighten on his arm, "Impudent eunuch," she muttered. He could tell she was frightened, it was understandable as the Unsullied had a well-earned, intimidating reputation.

Daeron knew quite a few things about the spearmen from Slaver's Bay, having read about them in the same book he'd gone through earlier that day. He remembered the tale of the great siege of Qohor, were three thousand Unsullied defended the city from fifty thousand Dothraki screamers. Along with a description of the battle, the book had also gone into detail about the slave soldiers themselves, how they were cut, how they were trained in the way of the three spears, how they were given an elixir which deadened them to pain. Even that they were made to strangle puppies and kill babes in front of their mothers.

He was not frightened though. The Unsullied may well be skilled soldiers, disciplined watchmen, and trustworthy guards, but this did not make them great warriors. A man is not made stronger by cutting his stones off as a boy. And they were taught to fight side-by-side in formation, not how to kill men as he had learned since he was old enough to hold a sword.

Above all that, however, Daeron was encased from head to toe in sturdy plate, and likewise had a blade of steel at his hip. The Unsullied wore a quilted tunic and kept a sword made of the same bronze as that of his cap. The Andals had taught the First Men that steel beat bronze, thousands of years ago.

And so, Daeron was unafraid of the Unsullied guardsmen. They had only his pity. Nevertheless, he crossed his arms in a huff, casually resting his hand on the hilt of his sword, then waited for his Kingsguard to dismount and catch up to them. Just in case. Better to be paranoid and wrong than dead.

Before tensions boiled over, Magister Illyrio came bustling behind them, after having required two strong men lift him to his feet. He growled something in Dothraki to the guard, who answered in the same rough tongue, moved out of their way, and waved to his compatriots to open the gate.

"The nerve of these savages," Visenya complained, though comforted by getting her way.

Illyrio apologized profusely, in honeyed words that were too sweet for Daeron's ears. "Many important people will be at the feast tonight. Such guests are sure to have powerful enemies. The Khal has to take precautions to keep them safe, yourself most of all, Princess. No doubt the Usurper would pay handsomely for your heads."

"Oh, yes," Visenya agreed with a dark chuckle, "that cur would do whatever it took to slay the last dragons. He has tried before and will try again I'm sure. His hired knives to follow us wherever we go."

Daeron knew the truth of her words. The Usurper's assassins had haunted their steps from the first. Daeron had never truly known a good night's sleep, he slept with one eye open, while the other dealt with the nightmares of the stag, lion, and wolf chasing after him.

"And have failed time and time again," Daeron added, despite the many attempts, they had been thwarted at every turn. The Targaryens still lived, and he could find comfort in at least that they deprived the Usurper of sleep as well.

"As they will continue to do so." Ser Oswell, his Kingsguard declared from his place at his side.

"We shall keep you safe, Your Grace." Ser Arthur, his Lord Commander agreed. And the young king knew they were at least sincere, Arthur's predecessor had given his life to protect him.

Daeron was a boy of seven when they'd come for him to steal his life away in Braavos, but Ser Gerold Hightower had been with him that day. As old as the White Bull was, he had remained fierce. Daeron would never forget how the brave knight had slain half a dozen bravos single-handedly. Nor would he ever forget the man's last words after toppling like a pile of bricks.

One day, Daeron would write Ser Gerold's last act into the White Book himself. After first mounting the traitors', Selmy & Lannister, heads on spikes atop the White Sword Tower.

Calming himself down, he carried on into the manse.

They were escorted into the entry hall. A mosaic of colored glass rested on the far-side wall, it depicted the Doom of Valyria. It showed the Fourteen Flames erupting, stars slamming into mountains, the very ground cracking apart, and enormous waves flowing over land. It made Daeron sad, Valyria had been his family's first home, and he would never get to visit, as common knowledge dictated, to this very day, the Doom still ruled Valyria. And Daeron so desperately wanted to see the towers that touched the sky, and the ancient sphinxes that dotted the Freehold.

Passing an archway, a eunuch of a different sort announced their arrival, in a high pitched voice. "Daeron of the House Targaryen, Third of his Name, King of the Andals, Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm. His sister, Visenya, Princess of Dragonstone. Their honorable host, Illyrio Mopatis, Magister of the Free City of Pentos."

The announcement did little to draw the attention of the other guests, as it had been for there benefit. To sate an ego that Daeron did not have, and that would fail to impress Visenya. The Dothraki most likely didn't even understand the Valyrian words, and the other guests had their own titles, which mattered more to them than those from a distant land across the sea.

They stepped past the herald, and entered the courtyard, illuminated by the pale moonlight. Visenya frantically glanced all around her for a look at her intended, as Daeron made do with watching the festivities.

Most of the guests were Dothraki horselords, burly men with long mustaches that went far past their chins, and even longer hair that hung in an oiled braid, wrapped with bells.

Daeron noticed swaggering bravos from the Titan's City, Pentoshi noblemen, scholars from Myr, Tyroshi sellswords with their dyed locks, the stout hairy men of Ib, Summer Islanders dressed in the colorful plumage of exotic birds. He noticed a large man laughing, bald and beardless, in loose-fitting red robes, laughing loudly with a staff in one hand, and a wine-skin in the other. He stood next to a priestess of R'hllor that caught his eye, she wore all red and had fiery hair covering a heart-shaped face. Besides Visenya, she was the only woman in attendance. On her neck was a choker instead of a collar, with a ruby that burned bright next to her pale skin.

The Dothraki around her were all glaring viciously at her as if she were unwelcome, but they dared not remove her.

Before he could inquire, he heard Illyrio whisper. "Those three are Drogo's bloodriders, there," pointing at indeed three Dothraki, who looked a sight more impressive than most of the others, with even longer braids with many more bells. "By the pillar is Khal Moro, with his son Rhogoro." They looked less impressive, yet the older man's hair was graying, which Daeron knew was a mark of distinction among nomadic people, as few Khals reached old age.

"Ah, the man with the green beard is brother to the Archon of Tyrosh." Illyrio pointed out, but Daeron would have recognized him eventually. They had spent a great deal of time in Tyrosh, more than any of the Free Cities save Braavos. So much time in fact, that Daeron actually had a bit of a Tyroshi accent. It was by far the most militant of the Daughters of Valyria, and the Tyroshi were very amenable to the Targaryen claimants, but as it were, they seemed to be at war constantly with Lys or Myr or both, and the elected Archon would not risk his position to enter another conflict while the Disputed Lands were still being fought over.

The Archon had wanted Daeron to marry his daughter once. House Targaryen had been the only family of Dragonlords from the Freehold to have survived the Doom. In the Free Cities, even more so than in the Seven Kingdoms, the Blood of the Dragon was revered and desperately sought. A single drop of Targaryen blood would raise a family of slaves to the height of nobility on Essos.

The match would have been acceptable, as Tyroshi were descendants of Old Valyria as well, and House Targaryen had looked to the Archons before for matches.

The girl had green hair, purple eyes, and a pretty smile. She seemed rather nice as well. And most importantly of all, Ashara had liked her. Though he had forgotten her name over the years, he wouldn't have minded marrying her if it meant getting to go home.

Daeron would have asked for a million of the Tyroshi's square coins with the lighthouse engraving on them, the Archon could have easily leveraged as much from the Trading Cartels of his city, and they would use the money to hire the Golden Company along with a fleet of sellsails. But Visenya hated the Golden Company for laughing at her long ago when they refused to accept a contract on credit, and no other company was large or trustworthy enough for the task.

So Visenya had asked for a hundred ships, and an army fit to invade Westeros with, as the dowry to be paid. And Daeron had known immediately that it would not happen. The Tyroshi did not keep an army, they preferred to hire sellswords from the gold collected by their treasury. So the Archon did not have an army to give, and therefore Visenya had said then there was no match. Daeron did not overrule her, as it was only because of what she'd done in Braavos that they did not need to accept. It wasn't long after that, that they left Tyrosh, and hadn't returned since.

Magister Illyrio kept rattling off names until he mentioned one that piqued Daeron's interest. "Mormont? From Bear Island?" Daeron interrupted, to his sister's displeasure. He had to ask, in the Free Cities, men could call themselves whatever they wanted, but it was a rare thing for any of them to be a knight, and stranger still for a Northerner who did not follow the Faith.

"The very same," Illyrio answered, smiling.

"What is he doing here?" he demanded, his hand finding his sword in a flash. Daeron knew of all the great houses of Westeros, and their sigils. So he recognized the Mormonts and their black bear on green, they were an old and noble house. From the North, the North that was ruled by the Usurper's wolf.

"The Usurper wanted his head," Illyrio answered, and Daeron relaxed. Until it was explained why. "Some trifling affront. He sold some poachers to a Tyroshi slaver instead of giving them to the Night's Watch. How absurd! A man should be able to do as he likes with his own chattel." Illyrio did not mind what Mormont had done for he was a Penthosi and a slaver besides, but Daeron did. The dragonlords of old had practiced slavery, but his house had long since abandoned it. Slavery was an evil, forbidden in the Seven Kingdoms, an abomination in the eyes of the Old Gods and the Seven alike.

It was bad enough that Daeron had to suffer the blight of slavery in Essos, he had no desire to meet Westerosi who suffered it gladly. He wanted nothing to do with the old knight in wool and leather.

"I shall wish to speak with Ser Jorah before the night is done." his sister said, and Daeron frowned from behind his helm. Visenya did not abhor slavery as he did, and longed for anything that reminded her of home.

"There he is, sweet princess," Illyrio whispered, "the khal himself." the large man was hovering over his sister.

Visenya was ogling the khal, and Daeron could only watch on with bemusement.

Khal Drogo was a head taller than any of his people in the room, only Daeron and his Kingsguard were of a similar height. He was heavyset, yet light on his feet. Drogo was younger than he'd expected him to be, not any older than thirty. His mustachio was bound with gold rings, while his skin was oiled and shone like polished copper.

Anyone could tell by a glance, that the khal was a dangerous man.

"I must go and make my submissions," Illyrio told them, "Wait here. I shall call for you when the time is right."

His sister took him by the arm as the magister waddled over to the khal, Daeron guessed she was squeezing, but didn't notice inside his armor. "Do you see his braid, little brother?"

Drogo's braid was far longer than any of his fellows, it reached past his hips and brushed his thighs. It rang with the sound of dozens of tiny bells. Daeron knew that Dothraki grew out their hair as long as they could, and were made to cut off their braids upon losing a fight to show the world their shame. Every bell was a trophy, speaking of a man Drogo had slain. And there were many bells.

"Khal Drogo has never been defeated." Visenya spoke in awe, "He is Aegon the Dragonlord come again, and I will be his queen."

Daeron's stomach lurched at her words, and a grunt escaped his lips. Drogo was hardly a dragonlord. Visenya was confusing horses with dragons.

Aegon the Conqueror had been a stern man. But he was not cruel, and one look at Drogo's eyes and Daeron could see it in them. This was a not a man that women such as Visenya should delight in being close to.

"You don't want to be his wife," he heard himself say before he knew what he was doing, "Please, Visenya, don't do this, let's go."

"Go where?" She kept her voice low, but the fury in her tone rattled him like a top. "Where should we go, little brother? Where can we go?" she demanded of him, as she dragged the much larger Targaryen into the shadows, the Kingsguard trailing at their heels, silent in their observance, heeding their vows of not interfering in the lives of their charges.

"Anywhere but here," he said, his voice broke like he was a little boy, but in spite of himself, his love for Visenya surmounted his fear of her. "It isn't safe."

"Safe?" she sad sharply, "I haven't been safe since before you were born. The only way I'll ever be safe is with an army at my back, and I'm going to get it." She smiled darkly at him, and wrenched his helmet off, so she could stare into his eyes. "I'd let his whole khalasar fuck me if need be, little brother, all forty thousand men, and their horses too if that's what took to get my army."

Daeron was horrified at her words, and fought to prevent the tears from spilling forth. Worse than the words, Daeron was forced to wonder if she was telling the truth.

"Be grateful you have sister such as I, to do these things for you. In time you might even come to appreciate the sacrifices I have made." Visenya said the words, as she repeated many times before, harshly reminding him of the things she had done. Of the debt he owed her. Did he have a right to question her, when she had sold herself to the highest bidder to see them fed, clothed and warm?

"Now dry your eyes, Illyrio is calling us over, and it will not do for a king to be crying," she commanded. It was true, the Magister was beckoning the forth, all smiles. The khal standing behind him leering at his sister with cloudy eyes. The sight of him made Daeron sick, the image of him rutting her like a beast infuriated him, the thought of Visenya selling herself for him made up his mind.

What was the point of being king if you couldn't protect the ones you loved?

He heard the words ring out, in a voice he recognized to be his own, though he didn't know where they came from, "I would sooner die than see you whore yourself for my benefit."

Visenya's freehand came rushing up to slap him, but before it could connect, Daeron had caught it. Startling them both. She had slapped him a thousand times, and he had never done anything like that before, nor had she expected him to. It had been easy, a voice in the back of Daeron's declared. Of course it was, another answered, she'd never been a warrior. He was.

Daeron noticed a look of pain cross her face, and he realized he had been squeezing so hard it hurt. A moment of satisfaction seized him, before he let go in shock.

She glared at him like she was about to melt him where he stood, to tear him to shreds, or to drop him from a great height. But all she did was thrust his helmet into his chest with a huff, before marching off to join Illyrio & Drogo.

It was like a mist covering his eyes had dispersed. Why had he been so afraid of her, all these years? There was no dragon inside Visenya that would wake at his defiance. Only a woman who tried to rule every part of him. Daeron was done with being ruled.

"Go with her," he commanded his knights, as he watched her approach the warlord with his bloodriders in tow.

"Your Grace, we-" Ser Arthur began to protest.

"Go." Daeron ordered with unusual steel in his voice.

They did as they were bid, and left him by himself to go to her side.

Daeron slumped in relief, and made his way to the nearest cask, he filled a goblet with whatever it was that came out of the tap and drank heartily, sorely tempted to forget everything about being king, and fantasize about being a drunk in some rundown tavern in a town without a name.

He plopped down next to the cask of what he found down to be one of the pale amber wines produced in Pentos. It could have been much worse, Pentos was not far from the Velvet Hills of Andalos, where all the wine was sour.

He was quite content to enter a stupor, and embarrass his sister greatly. Making himself cozy with the barrel, he decided to stargaze for a time.

* * *

Daeron the Drunken they could call him, he thought happily. But soon found himself frowning. There had already been a Daeron the Drunken, a great-grand uncle of his, who'd apparently died of a pox given to him by a whore, leaving his wife a widow for a second time, and their simple-minded daughter without a father.

This Daeron stood up, lodged the goblet on the nearest table, and abandoned it, for the embrace of a stool well away from the feasting, he sat down in a heap, and rested his head between his arms, glaring at the helmet staring back at him. At least he could take solace in that he was quite sure there had never been a Daeron the Depressed before.

Daeron the Down. Daeron the Doleful. Daeron the Dejected. Daeron the Despondent. Daeron the Distraught. Daeron the Dismal. Daeron the Dreary. Daeron the Disheartened. Daeron the Dejec-

"Your Grace." a voice with an eastern accent took him out of his despair... Daeron the Despairing.

Looking up from underneath his arms, he squinted at the red shape. Shaking his head, he noticed that it was the woman from before, the Priestess of R'hllor, with a pot-bellied companion at her side.

"Greetings, Your Grace," the woman started, "I am servant of the Lord of Light. Melisandre is my name."

Daeron nodded tiredly and looked to the man.

"I am Thoros, Your Grace, once of Myr, and not of much else as of late." that introduction woke him up. Daeron had heard stories about Thoros of Myr, the Red Priest who'd been at his father's court in a bid to convert him, only to fail and spend years trying to do the same with the Usurper. The man did not look like much, but by his reputation alone, Daeron was weary.

Beneath the table, he wrapped one hand around the hilt of his sword, and with the other gripped the table edge in order to tip it over if the need arose.

"What do you want?" he asked, his voice slurred, though he was sobering up somewhat.

They smiled at him, the woman's was eerily beautiful, the man's was bizarrely jovial. Melisandre answered, "We seek only to serve our Lord, to be instruments of his fiery will, to champion the God of Flame & Shadow's cause."

"I am a bad priest, a poor instrument, and an even poorer champion, at least in regard to serving R'hllor. I came because she asked me to." Thoros chuckled, "She can be most persuasive."

Unperturbed by his words, she continued, "We have come here to find you, Your Grace."

"Who sent you? Was it the Usurper? The High Priest?" he demanded.

Thoros laughed darkly at the question, "Robert would be rather wroth to learn that I was here. He'd likely have my head just for talking to you. No doubt, he would at the very least refuse to keep replacing my swords." this disarmed Daeron to an extent, but he did not let down his guard, the man might well be lying.

"Benerro knows not that we are here, Your Grace.", Melisandre told him, "We came of our own accord, at least in the sense that no mortal man bid us come. No, as I've said, we followed out hearts of fire."

"Why have you come then?" he asked confusedly.

"We have come for you, Your Grace." the woman said, shaking her hair that gleamed like burnished copper in front of his face.

"Why?" he asked again, it was almost if she was stalling by repeating herself, he considered calling for his Kingsguard.

As if she heard his thoughts, she went on, "We have come to serve you, Your Grace." Thoros nodded happily at her side.

This stunned Daeron, he had come across lickspittles and boot-lickers before, along with sellswords and priests coming to offer their swords or guidance for coin. But he was still unused to people pledging themselves to him.

"Why do you want to serve me?" he inquired skeptically.

Melisandre sat across from him, and he stared into her sparkling eyes, the woman seemed to glow before him, the sizable ruby on her neck, looked like it was almost smoldering atop her skin.

"The Lord of Light, in his infinite wisdom, has seen fit to grant me a gift. Through his flames, he has allowed me to gaze through the rock and soil of the earth, to find the truth of men's souls. To speak with kings long dead, and to children not yet born. To watch the years pass by my very eyes, until the end of days come. To wield the shadows that surround us, and light my way in the dark."

Daeron was not amused. He'd learned about the higher mysteries from the once upon Archmaester of the Citadel, Marwyn the Mage. He doubted the truth of her words. Daeron knew there was magic in the world, the dragons were more than enough proof of that, but what the priestess was claiming seemed too good to be true, and as Marwyn had taught him, he remained weary.

"And what does R'hllor want with me?"

She beamed at him, "You are to be his agent on this plane, Your Grace. You are his Warrior of Light, the Son of Fire, the Last Hero Reborn." Daeron began to pale, "You are he who will take up the burning sword, win the war for the dawn, casting down the one whose name may not be spoken, saving the world from the never-ending night. He who will drive the darkness into light. You are Azor Ahai come again."

Daeron had gone as milk-white as a ghost, the blood had drained from his face. "W-why? Why do you think that I'm-"

She answered before he'd asked, "I prayed for a glimpse of Azor Ahai, and in my flames I saw a crimson dragon, Your Grace, one with three heads. I have seen you, Your Grace. A little boy with silver hair, and violet eyes. I have read of your coming in ancient prophecy, born amidst salt and smoke, with the blood of kings and a warrior's heart. You shall wake dragons out of stone. You are the prince that was promised. You-"

Daeron could withstand no more prophecies, every Targaryen had heard of the promised prince, it had been why his parents had been married against their will, when a wood's witch had foretold that the prince was to be born to their line. The same witch that had led King Aegon the fifth to Summerhall, where he burned to death along with most of what was left of their house.

No, Daeron knew better to listen to prophecy, to think he could control fire, to believe he could bring back the dragons. It had caused his family nothing but grief. Marwyn's words echoed in his ears, and he spoke them aloud to the prophets. "Prophecy will bite your prick off every time."

The priestess frowned, the priest screamed with laughter.

"Your Grace, I assure you, the Lord of Light does not lie to his children." Melisandre pleaded.

"Then perhaps you have misheard him." Daeron stood, tired of this conversation, "The prince you're looking for is to be heralded by a bleeding star, like my nephew Aegon, and he's long dead."

The priestess persisted, "We believe that Ser Arthur Dayne is what heralded you, Your Grace. A renowned knight from the house of a falling star. His blade, Dawn might well be Lightbringer!"

"You're seeing what you want you to be so. The legend of the prince involves a song of ice and fire, I don't even know what ice looks like." Finished with them, he turned to leave, no longer content to wait for Visenya to finish before returning to Illyrio's manse.

Melisandre flung herself at him, grasping him tightly. Daeron pried her arms off him, and for a moment he thought that he saw a withered hag in her place. She recoiled from him in shock, then stared at him in awe. Daeron thought for a moment of Marwyn's tales of sorcerers twisting the shadows to change the shapes of their face.

Whatever it had been, he would be better served to stay well away from her. "Keep your prophecies to yourselves, and leave me be. I will not tell you again." summoning the same steel he had used earlier, coming easier this time than it had before.

She sputtered at him, and Thoros sighed but did not try to impede his exit.

When he reached the nearest door, a cry rang out.

"I'm sorry. We swore a vow." she called from behind, and he froze in his tracks.

He turned on his heel and gave her a sharp look, "What did you say?"

"I said what was once said to you before, Your Grace." Melisande told him, her voice desperate, "I told you, R'hllor has allowed me to speak to souls on the other side. To watch events unfold, those that are yet to pass, as well as those that have come and gone. I have seen your Bull, Your Grace."

" _I'm sorry. We swore a vow._ _"_ Ser Gerold had muttered to him over and over again, as he laid dying in Daeron's arms. The young boy had never told another living person of his Lord Commander's unexplained apology. 'Last words often made as much sense as first words.' went the common wisdom. Daeron had not wanted Ser Gerold's delirium to be immortalized in the White Book, such was not the fate his savior deserved.

'How could she know what he said?' Daeron wondered. Did he talk in his sleep? So much so that she knew, but that his companions did not. Was it truly magic? Magic was supposed to have faded since the last dragon's death, but what else could it be? Could she be telling the truth?

"We all must choose, Your Grace. Kings and beggars alike." the red priestess said, drawing his attention back to the outside world.

It was too much, far too much to take in.

Daeron fled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: A conversation with Ashara. A game changer.
> 
> I'd really appreciate any comments you might have.
> 
> Kudos would help too.
> 
> If you want to keep up with this story, Bookmark and subscribe.
> 
> I do not believe in prophecy. In this story, this series, or fate in general.
> 
> I feel like I'm going to have to mention this a lot with this story, but having a Targaryen protagonist whose believed to be a savior does not mean he's a Gaery Stu. See Dany. That's just how this world works. This does not mean that someone else is the subject of the prophecy, or that Daeron won't use the prophecy to his own gain, or be seen to have fulfilled it by some people. My point is that Daeron is not Keanu Reeves. This will become crystal clear eventually, but it will seem murky for a while, and admittedly, almost obviously wrong at a couple of junctures.

**Author's Note:**

> I'd really appreciate any and all comments.
> 
> If you wouldn't mind giving me kudos, that'd help.
> 
> Next chapter should follow in the next few days. I had to cut this one down, so there's not much left to finish in 2 & 3.
> 
> I'm wondering whether or not I should I bring back Rhaenys, and am looking for some advice. I have a way of doing it that makes sense lore-wise, and won't involve pulling a rabbit out of a hat. But I'm weighing its value in my head.
> 
> I'm not writing this story because I don't like the fact that Dany is a girl, she's a great character and one of my biggest reasons for liking Martin's work, in general, is how much I love his female characters. I'm writing this story because I thought it'd be interesting to follow the story of the bad-ass character with fire-breathing dragons when they're not being treated like a porcelain doll for so much it. Likewise, I gender-bent Viserys partly out of plot necessity, but also because it makes for more of an interesting dynamic.
> 
> Going to be fudging with the timeline a bit, in order to delay the plots of the Westerosi characters. There will be more time past since Robert's Rebellion as I prefer the characters older. This is actually pretty easy to do as Dany's story is largely separated from the Seven Kingdoms, and things don't even begin to set in motion until Jon Arryn dies, which is easily put off.


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